Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  "Did you recognize me for what I was?"

  She grimaced at that quietly offered truth.

  "His name is Quinton Alexander, but he would not be using that moniker. He is average, not someone you would notice in a crowd. He has fair hair and his eyes are blue, a poet's dreamy eyes. Eyes that hide his madness well. He worked for a newspaper once and fancies himself as a writer. He can appear as charming and harmless, but do not be deceived. He is evil to the soul, and he will snatch yours if he can. And if he can't, he will kill you."

  Stacy swallowed hard. “Then why hasn't he?"

  Louis sighed. How to explain such insanity to a woman of Stacy's pragmatic thinking. “He likes games. He likes to pretend his actions have a romantic yet tragic purpose. He is probably convinced that you need to be rescued from me, and as long as that's his belief, you will be safe."

  "So I should stay away from you."

  "There's the rub. It is dangerous for you to be with me, but I am the only one who can protect you from him."

  "Swell."

  "Exactly."

  She scrubbed her palms over her face and moaned. “I need to go now. I have to be ready for work in less than six hours and be able to pretend that my idea of the natural world has not just been turned upside down. I'm going home to get some sleep. Time's running out.” She stated that flatly, as if she knew it to be truth.

  He didn't try to convince her otherwise. Time was their enemy, and she needed to work. As he helped her on with her coat, he recalled something she had mentioned with considerable bitterness, and asked for a clarification.

  "You said something earlier about betrayal. Does this involve me?"

  Her lovely face was a skillful blank, but he could sense the lie even before she spoke it.

  "No. It has nothing to do with any of this."

  He decided he would have to accept that at least for the time being.

  "Call me if you need me."

  Her smile quirked at a cynical angle. “Where have I heard that before?” She held up her hand to block his response, and vowed, “I will call. This isn't something I can do alone. I know that now."

  "Be careful."

  "I believe that quote is ‘Trust no one.’ Don't worry. I've had my eyes opened on that subject.” She patted her bulky purse. “I'll go to work on these today. I am safe during the daylight, aren't I?"

  "Quinton may have humans working under his influence, doing his dirty work for him when he is incapable of doing it himself. Don't assume anything."

  She laughed. The sound was unpleasantly hard. “Yes, I know. Assume means ‘make an ass out of you and me.’ Neither of us is stupid, Louis. I won't make any mistakes."

  Any more mistakes, she should have told him.

  "While you work, I will do what I can to flush out this madman from my past. Be patient a while longer, Stacy. He will surface to brag of his misdeeds. I know him that well, at least. He is a creature of ego as well as insanity. He will want me to know his is the hand that meddles in my fate. I will be ready for him."

  Swell.

  Now she had the forces of darkness warring over her while she struggled to save mankind. Sounded too much like a John Carpenter plot for her comfort.

  Stacy leaned against the wall of the building's main elevator, overwhelmed by the whole situation.

  What would Louis say if he knew Frank Cobb had stolen her initial research? Would he still trust her and let her leave? Would he allow her to live if he thought their agreement dangerously compromised by her own carelessness? Would Cobb be another morgue statistic by night's end? Her head hurt from the strain of consequence mulling through her mind. Cobb, Charlie, Fitzhugh. Could she protect them all and still protect herself?

  She had what she needed to continue her research. That's where she would concentrate. Louis Redman could wait an eternity for the results if he had to.

  She didn't have the same luxury. And tomorrow she would find out exactly how long she had.

  Slipping behind the wheel of her car, Stacy surrendered briefly to a swelling sense of helplessness. She dreaded returning to her apartment. She would never feel safe there again. She slumped forward, letting her forehead rest against the leather-wrapped steering wheel as exhaustion took control.

  "You should be home in bed, not napping in the car."

  The sudden intrusion had her snapping upright, her gaze flying to the rear view mirror.

  Nothing.

  But when she glanced over her shoulder, she clearly saw the silhouette of Louis Redman in her back seat.

  "Don't be alarmed,” he told her soothingly.

  Too late.

  His explanation was bland and completely logical. “I didn't want anyone to see us leaving together."

  "What are you doing in my car? You nearly scared me to death.” She was too tired to keep the shaky edge of hysteria from her demand.

  "What kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn't see you safely home? Drive. Pretend I'm not here."

  And he seemed to actually sink back into the shadows, into invisibility.

  Swell. Pretend there wasn't a blood sucking vampire in her back seat.

  She started the car and put it in gear. As she drove her silent and unseen passenger through town, Stacy couldn't deny that she felt better knowing he was there. She was out of her league with the forces she faced. Perhaps it was just an exhausted paranoia, but she sensed threat from everywhere. From the bum standing on the corner who rushed out to wash her windshield for a dollar while she waited for the light to change. From the grunge guitarist practicing his trade in a doorway for the change it would bring. From the street walker who stared at her for an uncomfortable moment too long as she drove by. Were they watching her, reporting her movements back to the shadowy Quinton Alexander? Or was she just too tired to think straight? For now, she was valuable to Redman, and she could count on his protection from dangers both real and imagined.

  For now.

  She pulled into her assigned car port, looked in the mirror, then chided herself for the habitual gesture. Yet when she turned, the back seat was empty. Her guardian was gone.

  Or was he?

  She chose to believe he was nearby. That made it possible for her to get out of the vehicle and walk with some degree of confidence up the front walk where Glenna had met her terrible death.

  Because of her. Because of her association with a man who was not a man. A man who had an enemy who defied normal conventions of time and space, and then was crazy on top of it all.

  If she had any sense left, she would run as far and fast as she could to escape the evil hovering over her and those near her.

  But if she ran, she was as good as dead anyway.

  She opened her door and switched on the light, momentarily surprised by the tidy condition Cobb had left her apartment in. Well, that was one benefit of their disastrous night together. She could actually see the furniture. She stepped inside and deadbolted the door behind her, realizing there was only a pseudo-sense of security in doing so.

  After placing the blood vials in her refrigerator, she turned on the playback of her answering machine while beginning to undress. The first message hit like a fist to the jaw.

  "Doc, this is Frank Cobb."

  She hit the delete button to spare herself the anger surging at the sound of his voice. An impersonal beep, then the next voice.

  "Hey, Stace, it's Alex. I'm back in town. We need to get together about that Redman thing. I'm sitting on a gold mine here, and I don't mind telling you, the pick and shovel are in my hands. Don't make a face. I'm keeping my promise. Just don't ask me to keep it forever."

  Alex Andrews. Another loose end that would drive Louis to distraction if he knew. Or to violence if it meant protecting himself. She couldn't let Louis’ urbane demeanor fool her into thinking he'd lived for centuries without knowing how to protect his secret by whatever means it took. Before politically correct blood donation centers, he'd gotten his nightly meal from someplace—someplace fres
h and still warm.

  The centuries may have lent him a sophisticated polish, but she could not forget that he was a killer, just like Quinton Alexander. Which was worse, a murderer driven by a madness he couldn't understand or control, or a killer who did so with cold intention?

  She had to rest. Her head pounded. Weakness sapped her last remaining strength, leaving her only enough energy to wash her face and slip into the oversized Mariners tee shirt she wore to bed at night. She didn't want to feel sexy when she was alone. She wanted to feel normal. Unexceptional. She padded into her bedroom in the dark, slipped beneath the covers to hope unconsciousness would arrive with merciful swiftness.

  But even with the opportunity at hand, she couldn't relax her mind enough to allow slumber in. Had Frank told his true employers what she was working on? Would she go in the next morning to find her lab sealed and her data confiscated? And who was this madman, this Quinton Alexander, who stalked her with his sick sense of humor? Was it a distant stranger or someone close whom she trusted?

  He wouldn't be using his real name.

  Alexander. Alex Andrews. The leap was made in thoughts too tired to dismiss it as ridiculous.

  But was it ridiculous?

  How quickly her reporter friend had come up with information buried beneath the weight of generations. Alexander had worked on a newspaper. Coincidence or convenience? Alex's hair was brown, but hair color was easier to change than identity. If he'd done the one, why not the other?

  Had her young reporter friend settled in Seattle to keep an eye on his enemy, just waiting for the chance to strike? Would she be the weapon he used to sever Louis's future and her own with it?

  She would arrange a meeting between Alex and Louis. Then Louis's past wouldn't be the only thing exposed.

  She rolled to her other side with a restless toss, and froze. Her eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness but her other senses tingled with alarm.

  "Who's there?"

  "You are not sleeping."

  "First my car, now my room,” she accused, trying to sound annoyed while relief shivered through her. “You make yourself right at home, don't you, Louis?"

  He emerged from the drape of shadows, at first just a dark shape himself, then taking on form and dramatically highlighted features. From out of that face of hollows and haunting beauty, his eyes burned bright with unnatural fire.

  "I am to blame for your agitation."

  "And you thought you could ease it by popping up unexpectedly to shock me into cardiac arrest?” It sounded like more of a complaint than it was. Instead of feeling a degree of threat from his presence, she was worried about how long he'd been in her apartment. And by how much he might have heard on the answering machine.

  Apparently, nothing, for he betrayed no hint of upset or concern, except over her. Toward her, his attitude was almost fatherly.

  A rather incestuous notion considering how she'd been viewing him in spite of her best intentions.

  "I thought I might tell you a story to help you get to sleep."

  "A fairy tale? One with a princess or a monster?"

  He didn't respond to her teasing with a laugh. “More than one princess and definitely a monster."

  She plumped her pillow, intrigued and no longer weary. “Does it have a happy ending?"

  "Perhaps.” His smile was sad, his voice melancholy. “But I am getting ahead of myself."

  "Are you the hero of this tale?"

  "Some might say hero, others, villain. You shall decide for yourself."

  "Does this story begin in Italy?"

  "Yes. Long, long ago, with two friends, one a scholar blessed with wealth and longing for discovery, and the other cursed by ambition and touched by jealousy.” The intimate tone of his voice, and its sorrowful echo, told her that this was not some ancient tale, but a slice of his past that was still very real and close to him.

  "You were the scholar."

  "You interrupt."

  "Go on."

  "These two young friends, both so innocent of life's cruelties, had a woman come between them. The scholar called her demon, but she was more. Much more."

  "She was a vampire.” How easy it had become to say that name without a smirk, but rather with a sense of dread and awe.

  "And she stole from these two friends their lives, their love for one another, and made them into abominations unable to withstand the light of day. The ambitious one embraced this dark life, but the scholar mourned the loss of his humanity and swore to one day find a way to reclaim it."

  His tone became a hypnotic storyteller's drone, drawing Stacy into the tale of creeping horror and poignant hope as he spoke of Arabella Howland, the courageous daughter of a Regency era doctor who had restored his ability to love just as her father temporarily returned his capacity to stand in daylight.

  "He used a combination of Eastern herbs and the draining powers of a radical new blood transfusion process to bleed the curse from me. I walked as a man again, feeling certain enough of the cure to wed my Arabella and conceive a child. But alas, the effects of the doctor's potions were not as long-lasting as the love between his daughter and me. Even as I reverted to what I once was, my Bella refused to leave me."

  "And you lived in France, then came to America when you wife was old enough to pass as your grandmother."

  "Yes. When one lives for centuries, you must be always on the move. No one must grow suspicious of our inability to age with the natural passage of time. I've lived all over the globe, always hiding my true identity behind a new name, never allowing anyone to get close enough to suspect anything. Only Takeo has been my constant companion and privy to my secret. Others have come and gone over the years, until they blur in my memory beneath the sheer magnitude of faces."

  He'd become little more than a shadow again, but Stacy could picture him so clearly, the same then as he was now even as the woman he loved grew aged and infirm.

  How horribly sad and strangely romantic.

  "After Bella died, I was convinced I would never care for another. But that had not been her plan for me. She wanted me to continue to hope, to continue to seek a cure so that one day we could be together. Through her matchmaking, I met my second wife, Cassandra Alexander, a bold crusader who owned her own newspaper."

  "And the enemy who stalks you now was related to her."

  She saw him nod. “Her cousin, Quinton. He hid his madness behind creativity, and he made Cassie the object of his obsession. His father wanted Cassie out of the way so he could inherit the newspaper, but Quinton, because he loved her in his own crazed way, could not kill her. Instead, he began to seek out blonde women as substitutes, luring Cassie closer to discovering his secret by leaving her clues after each murder, hoping to either win her love or disgust her so that he might then kill her without remorse."

  Her voice hushed, Stacy asked, “And which did he do?"

  "I was able to rescue Cassie from his intentions, but he fell victim to his own darkness, becoming a companion to the same demon who spawned me centuries before. We have sparred several times since then, and his hatred has grown more explosive after his paramour turned away from him when she found him to be a coward who could not be trusted."

  "And Cassie?"

  "My beloved Cassie loved life as she loved me. She, like Arabella before her, chose not to join me in this dark existence. She fell victim to her own mortality some seventy years ago, and since that time, I have been alone."

  Seventy years.

  Stacy's heart broke for his solitary sorrow.

  "I have loved two extraordinary women in my life, both of whom sacrificed much for me. I could never—would never ask that of another."

  Wondering what such a sacrifice might entail, Stacy distracted both of them from that course of conversation. “And your ambitious friend? What of him?"

  "Gerardo.” He spoke the other's name with a deep and eternal fondness. “We have come to terms with our past mistakes. He now shares his life with a woman who accepted
his dark gift and has adopted her son, Gino, as his own.” He smiled as he mentioned his namesake, but the sadness still steeped in his tone, striking a kindred note within the geneticist.

  "So if your wife Cassandra has died, why does her cousin continue his warped idea of vengeance?"

  "He blames me for many things—for his failure to win Cassie's love and his father's respect, for the loss of his wicked companion, for forcing him into hiding throughout this past century. I thought I could ignore his threat, but he will not allow that to happen. And I cannot allow him to threaten what is most important to me."

  For one ridiculous second, Stacy mistakenly thought he referred to her. Sillier still was her sudden, unfounded wish for it to be true. Except the fervor with which Louis spoke had nothing to do with love but rather with longing.

  "I will not allow him to cheat me out of attaining my humanity. You must find the cure, and if I must destroy him to see that it is done, so be it."

  Her weariness returned in an engulfing wave, and with it, a sense of loneliness deep enough to drown in. She was a tool, nothing more. A means to attaining his end just as he was hers. It was the strangeness of her mood that coaxed her to think there might be more.

  Tomorrow, her objectivity would return and Louis Redman would cease to be a romantic fantasy. But for this achingly empty night, she had pretended he was both rescuer and hero. His bittersweet tale of love won and lost appealed to her own poignant view of happiness. One could not hope to have what one could not forever hold. In that, she and Louis were very much alike.

  Take away the pain of emotional involvement and only work remained. That's where she would focus. That's where she would succeed for the both of them.

  "You are tired,” Louis surmised gently. “Sleep well and know that I watch over you."

  As if that would give her comfort?

  Obligingly, she closed her eyes. She went from wide awake to barely able to hold her thoughts together in the space of a heartbeat.

  Louis, he was doing something to her, using some vampiric magic to soothe her cares away. Her last remembered threads of consciousness concerned the two women Louis had loved enough to wed and weep over. Women who were strong and supportive, and by his own unvoiced accord, reminded him of her. She fell asleep wondering how she would compare to them.